Bond shifted in his seat, visibly nervous.
“Look,” Robin continued. He turned back the lapel of his coat to reveal the deputy’s badge. “I’m foreman of the J7 outfit on the Judith side of the Big Muddy. But I’m a deputy from Tom Coat’s office besides. Tyler’s my name. I got a blank warrant in my pocket. I don’t punch cows or be a deputy sheriff for the fun of the thing. I know somethin’ about this brand you’re supposed to own. You’ll either tell me who you’re coverin’ up or you’ll go down to Fort Benton on the morning train. Take your choice.”
“I dassent,” Bond whined. “I don’t know nothin’ about cattle. Never owned a hoof. Havin’ this T Bar S registered in my name was just a favor to a certain party. You can’t put nothin’ on me for that.”
“Can’t I? How much did you get for this favor—from this party?” Robin jeered. “Talk right out loud, Mr. J. Bond.”
“A couple of hundred,” Bond admitted, with sullen reluctance. “But you can’t hang nothin’ on me for that, either.”
“Men have been hung for less in the cow country,” Robin said grimly. “Who is this party?”
Bond shook his head stubbornly.
“Hell!” he cried. “Why don’t you grab the cattle and make him show his hand?”
Robin stared at the saloon man for a minute. Certain possibilities occurred to him on the heels of that remark. But he wanted something more definite.
“Spit his name out,” he said harshly. “I can guess it—but I want to hear you say it out loud.”